ned and a thick-set man in shirt-sleeves came
out on the porch. He peered into the darkness.

"Who's that?" he asked. Anne, fearfully expecting to be devoured by the
yelping curs, could not answer. "Who's out there, say?" repeated the
man. Anne took two or three steps toward the protection of the light and
the open door. The man answered a question from within. "Don't know.
It's a child," he said, catching sight of Anne, and going to meet her.
"Them pups won't bite. Get away, Red Coat. She'll nip you if she gits a
chance. Come right on in, honey. Whyn't you holler at the gate?"

Anne followed the strange man through the door that he opened hospitably
wide. It was and was not the dear room that she remembered. There were
the four big windows, the panelled walls, the bookcase with
diamond-paned doors, built in a recess beside the chimney. But where was
the gilt-framed mirror that hung over the mantel-piece? And the silver
candlesticks with crystal pendants? And the old brass fender and
andirons? And the shiny mahogany table with brass-tipped claw feet? And
the little spindle-legged tables with their burdens of books, vases, and
pictures? And the tinkly little old piano? And the carved mahogany
davenport? And the sewing-table, ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that
stood always by the south window? And the quaint old engravings and
colored prints? All these were gone. Instead of the threadbare Brussels
carpet patterned with huge bouquets of flowers, there was a striped rag
carpet. There were a few rush-bottomed chairs, a box draped with red
calico on which stood a water-bucket and a wash-pan, a cook-stove before
the fireplace, and in the middle of the room a table covered with a red
cloth, on which was set forth a supper of coffee, corn-cakes, fried
bacon, and cold cabbage and potatoes. A fat, freckle-faced girl, a
little larger than Anne, and two boys of about twelve and fourteen were
seated at the supper-table. Beside the stove stood a stout, fair woman
in a soiled gingham apron. Their four pairs of wide-open, light-blue
eyes stared at Anne.

"Where you pick up that child, Peter Collins?" demanded the woman,
neglecting her frying cakes.

"She jes' come to the door," responded Mr. Collins.

"My sakes!" exclaimed his wife. "Whose child is you? Whar you come from,
here after dark, this way?"

"Where's Aunt Charity?" asked Anne.

"Aunt Charity? Don't no Aunt Charity live here. This is Mr. Collins's
house,--Peter Col